


Pint for a Song

by Gimli_s_Pickaxe (orphan_account)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Maglor has a Guitar, Malt Beer, Modern Era, Stormy nights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23786383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Gimli_s_Pickaxe
Summary: The owner of a struggling bar recieves some unexpected help from a stranger. A Maglor-through-history story set sometime in the modern era. Oneshot.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	Pint for a Song

**Author's Note:**

> I have fallen in love with Maglor. This is the result. :)

It was a stormy night.

Ben, halfheartedly swiping a ragged cloth over the lid of a beer bottle, wondered if he’d have felt worse if it were sunny. Probably. The way the wind rattled the splintering slats was a little disturbing, but at least it was a fitting ending to his bar.

The rickety cupboard slammed shut, caught in a sudden draft, and Ben swallowed a curse as it banged against his forehead.

“Dratted thing,” he muttered. “Be good; you won’t be seeing me much longer anyhow.”

The rusted bells on the door jangled, and a fresh gust of wind ruffled Ben’s apron. The newcomer was tall and gaunt, just this side of haggard, and smelled of dank city smoke and rainwater. 

“A pint,” he said, settling his guitar case down by the floor. Rain fell in rivulets down it, making a puddle on the floor. A musician, then.

“What kind?”

“Anything. I’ll take whatever you’ll give.”

Ben shrugged. “We’ve been told we do good malt.”

“That, then.”

The man’s voice had a magnetic quality to it, quiet as it was. It was the kind of voice you could listen to for hours on end and never get tired of listening. Ben slapped a sloshing glass full of the house’s specialty beer on the counter and leaned back.

“You know, you’ll be disappointed if you’ve come hoping to play on stage. I mean, figuring you do play, with that case of yours, and all.”

The man fixed Ben with a gaze that could pierce stone.

“Why so?”

Ben laughed, or tried to, but it was a helpless thing. He must be getting sentimental. Or the weather was simply getting to him – or both.

“Last day of business,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I mean, look around. It’s almost midnight and you’re the only one here.”

The man didn’t even blink. 

“I see.”

“People just don’t like dingy holes like this.”

“But you like this place. Don’t you?”

“I suppose so. I practically raised this place from rubble.” Ben shrugged, helplessly, remembering better days. “But there’s nothing I can do.”

The man had finished his drink. He was a fast drinker – he took his alcohol like water. The man stared at Ben for a little bit, his gaze somehow unbearably heavy. Ben tried not to look away. He took his time to study the man – sharp cheekbones sculpted like a king’s, and stern brows to match. He looked like he was cut out of a bloody history book. 

The man fingered his guitar.

“What do you say to a song for my drink?”

If it were any other day, Ben might’ve said no. Pretty as songs are, they don’t feed hungry mouths. But today Ben was feeling sentimental. Maybe, he figured, his bar deserved a nice farewell song.

“Are you good?”

“I suppose my mother knew what she was doing when she named me.”

“Why? You named for your voice or something?”

A haughty spark lighted in the man’s eyes. He gave a strange, wistful smile. Proud and sad at once.

“She reckoned I could cleave gold with my voice.”

“Must’ve been one heck of a musical kid, if she could tell that already.” 

The stranger gave him a wry smile at that. Ben spoke, quick, before he could change his mind.

“Well, damn me. Do your worst.”

The man took his guitar out of his case. It was a nice instrument, if a bit worn, light tan with a well-used sheen to it. He twanged a few chords. Ben shuffled, waiting.

Then the man opened his mouth, and Ben’s cleaning rag dropped to the floor. 

It was a haunting song, beautiful still. Yearning, calling, reeling in anyone who would listen. Ben thought of a wanderer by the sea, a warm light in the distance. He thought of bells tolling, laments sung in the dark, something heartbreakingly beautiful found and then lost.

Then the song shifted, sweetening, growing warm and home-like, inviting. Like a warm golden light seeping out of a door left open in a storm. Ben took a step closer towards the man. It was almost like his feet had a mind of their own. The music seeped into his consciousness, tugging. As if it wanted to spirit him away to some world unknown. 

Ben gave in.

When he came to, he was alone in front of the counter, and a smattering of people had crept unnoticed into the bar. “We came in because of the singing,” one of them explained. “Never heard anything like it. Is he coming back?”

Ben blinked. He saw an empty beer glass, and a puddle where a guitar case had been. A note was pressed onto the counter. Ben unfolded the piece of paper and stared at it for a while. He wondered if he should tell the people the bar probably wasn’t even going to be here tomorrow. 

But maybe – maybe he ought to keep it open just one more day. He probably ought to wait for that stranger. He’d said he’d come back tomorrow, after all. He’d be awfully disappointed if he came back and the bar was nowhere to be found. Maybe. Leastways, Ben could probably afford it.

It was just one day, after all.

Ben looked at the note, again. He blinked.

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose so.”


End file.
